Ryan, my husband, was on the couch with his legs crossed like he owned the place. Lisa sat beside him, her purse on her lap, posture straight and alert—almost pleased. Across from them, in the armchair near the window where Margaret used to sit with her tea, was a man I had never seen before. He wore a gray suit that looked too formal for a house that still smelled faintly of antiseptic wipes and Margaret’s lavender soap.
For half a second, I thought maybe they were waiting to talk about funeral arrangements or paperwork or something normal, something human.
But no one stood when I walked in.
No one said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
No one asked if I was okay.
They just looked at me as if they had been waiting for a witness to arrive.
I closed the door behind me slowly. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the quiet of the house. My coat felt heavy on my shoulders, soaked through, the fabric cold against the back of my neck.
Ryan didn’t even pretend to be uncomfortable. He leaned back, resting one arm along the back of the couch, his gaze fixed on me like this was a meeting he’d scheduled weeks ago.